The Ties That Bind
by La Rose Noire
Summary: Takes place back when Spike was newly chipped and forced to be one of the Scoobies. This will be Spike/Willow stuff because it just makes so much SENSE…and it helps scrub all the Spuffy out of my brain.
1. Ties That Bind, Parts 1 to 3

TITLE: Ties That Bind, 1/?

AUTHOR: La Rose Noire

EMAIL: goddessblkrose@yahoo.com

SUMMARY: Takes place back when Spike was newly chipped and forced to be one of the Scoobies. This will be Spike/Willow stuff because it just makes so much SENSE…and it helps scrub all the Spuffy out of my brain.

RATING:  G (But we'll see how it goes in other

parts.)

DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, et al own all

that is Buffy...including the characters in this

story. No copyright infringement intended...just an

attempt to rewrite their world to my liking. It's what goddesses do.

Ties That Bind, Part 1

If he didn't get out of here in the next thirty seconds he was going to throttle someone, chip or no chip. What more did they want from him? They called, he came. They said follow, he went with them on their little quest to defeat yet another evil. They said "Kill," he ripped a bunch of demons apart. ** He sat. He begged. He rolled over** The unwelcome thought made him clench his fists and he growled low in his throat.

Yeah, if he didn't leave right this second, someone was going to be hurting, even if he had to go along for the ride.

"I'm out of here." He stood abruptly and his chair skittered back behind him, banging against the bookcase. The loud noise, more than his movement – after all, no one had paid any attention to him since they left the graveyard, had they? Why should they? He'd served his purpose – made the Watcher stop, mid-sentence. 

"Yes. Well. Fine." Giles scanned the book in front of him. "Where was I?"

As he came around the table the Slayer stood and stepped in front of him, planting a hand  **a tiny mortal hand** in the middle of his chest to stop him. He growled again, deep in his chest, clenching his jaw with effort. One swipe of his arm and she'd be across the room. He'd be on the floor howling in pain and wouldn't get to enjoy it, but the thought of her body flying through the air and crashing into the shop's display shelves brought him a moment of satisfaction. 

"Not so fast, Fangless." The Slayer removed her hand from his chest and unconsciously wiped it on the side of her skirt. "Be here tomorrow at sundown. There may be more of those things out there, and we need you to help kill them." She turned and sat down in her recently vacated chair, turning her back to him.

Two slayers. He'd killed two slayers in his time, and this one didn't even think enough of him not to turn her back on him. He contemplated the thin neck of the girl in front of him, imagining the feel of her fragile bones beneath his fingers, knowing exactly what it would feel like to twist and snap that delicate little neck, watch her head loll to the side like a broken doll…

"Spike!" 

His eyes met the Watcher's. "What?" His tone was low and controlled, betraying nothing of what he was feeling. 

Ah, yes. Control. He'd learned more about control in the last few months than he had in the last 128 years.

And he hated every moment of it.

"Your money is in an envelope on the counter. You needn't count it, it's all there." The Watcher turned his attention back to his book and the little group of do-gooders. "Now, as I was saying…" 

Spike stalked to the counter and grabbed the envelope by the cash register, turning it over in his hands a few times.

He'd sold himself again. Sold his body and what it could do for a few quid to keep him in blood and cigarettes. The Big Bad was now the vampire equivalent of a prostitute, only without the false words of endearment and recognition after the act. The envelope disappeared into the folds of his duster and he turned towards the door, calculating how fast he could get to the closest liquor store.

"Spike?" His eyes followed the soft sound of his name, coming to rest on the figure standing to the side of the door, an armful of books balanced in front of her. He growled in answer and her big green eyes widened. He shuddered as the scent of her fear wafted towards him like some long forgotten perfume. 

"What, Witch?" **Haven't you gotten enough from me tonight? What else do you bloody wankers want from me?** He smirked when she unconsciously backed up and hit the wall behind her.

"Um…nothing. Well, I guess it's something, kind of. Um…" She took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. "Thank you. For the demon killing. We couldn't have done it without you. You were really…wow. When you went all GRRRR…" Spike felt his smirk try and turn itself into a smile as the witch scrunched up her little nose and bared her teeth, trying to look vicious. "…and then you took those two on at once and ripped their heads off with your bare hands and then used the heads to knock down that whole group of demons…I mean, it was really gross and all, but…well, it was…it made all the difference. So, thank you." She suddenly ran out of steam and stopped, staring at him.

He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement. "No problem, Red." He banged out the front door of the shop as loudly as he could, duster swirling behind him, and turned towards his crypt, the liquor store completely forgotten.

Part 2

(A week later…)

Another night, another 12 hours of sheer Hell. He wondered idly if this is what it had been like for Peaches, after the Slayer stuck a sword through him and sent him to his just reward. He rather liked that image, so he replayed it in his mind slowly, imagining the shock and horror on the poncey bastard's face as he realized his One True Love had just skewered him.    

"Stop that!" The blonde next to him slammed her book aside and picked up another one.  He scowled as Peaches' face slipped away, only to be replaced with the faces of the people actually surrounding the table. He started tapping his foot faster in revenge, just to see what the Slayer would do. Gods below, he was bored. He needed to kill something or have a fag, soon. He was a man – okay, demon – of action, and this sitting around was killing him. Again.

"I said STOP, Spike…unless you want me to plant a stake through your boot to hold it to the floor." He stopped the foot tapping and sat up straight. Did she have any idea how much these bloody boots cost? Doc Martens they were, and they'd seen him through a lot of good times. Just because she was a fashion victim didn't mean he hadn't found a look that worked and stuck with it. These boots were part and parcel of…

The thought was left unfinished as his attention was caught by the red head slamming through the door. All eyes turned to her as she stomped to the table and flung her bag on an empty chair, dumping a soft sided computer case unceremoniously on the table top. Well, finally, something out of the norm. The evening was looking up. The witch usually slunk in all quiet like, murmuring soft hellos and plying people with the food or drink she'd brought. 

"Will?" The Slayer looked at her friend with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. No!" The witch shoved her book bag onto the floor and collapsed into the now empty chair. "I ran into some trouble on the way over." She shook her head at her friends' cries of concern. "I'm okay, I mean, physically, I'm fine, but the…the…bastard threw my laptop against a tree." She picked up the case and shook it, hard, closing her eyes at the sound of rattling parts. "Screen's toast, too." She wrapped her arms around the case and cradled it against her chest like a hurt child, staring down mournfully. "I wish I could zap him back to unlife so I could stake him again."

It was all he could do not to fall on the floor laughing. Her little toy had gotten broken in a scruffle. What was the big deal? Stupid bloody vampires today couldn't even manage to take out one little girl on their own. A picture of the little red head cowering against her headboard flashed across his mind before being brutally pushed aside. ** That was different. I wasn't myself. **

He watched disdainfully as the rest of the group murmured sympathetically as the witch tried hard not to cry. "We'll get it fixed, Will. I promise." The Slayer patted her friend's arm reassuringly.

"I promise, we'll get right on it first thing tomorrow. How about some tea? I was just going to make some. Let me get you a cup." He snickered as the Watcher hurried into the little kitchenette and started rattling crockery. ** Bloody cuppa will fix anything, won't it, Rupes? ** 

He decided to stir the pot a little and end the sickening sympathyfest. "Smart chit like you must have back ups and whatnot, right? What's the big deal?" His head flew back a bit in surprise before he could catch himself as the witch caught his eye and glared at him. Her eyes usually slid over his face, never quite making eye contact. She was the only one who seemed to understand that prey never stare into the eyes of predators.

But she was staring straight at him now, and he didn't like it. What was wrong with the girl?

"The big deal, as you put it, is the amount of work it's going to take to recover everything and get another system up and running the way I want. I had finally gotten this one just the way I wanted it – everything was perfect – and some…some…STUPID vampire goes and throws it into a tree!" Her voice rose as she went on, her fingers clutching the computer case tighter and tighter.

 "Like I said, I just don't get it." He shrugged, dismissing her little problem – and her along with it.

"No, Spike, you don't 'get it'. To 'get it', you'd have to actually care about something other than yourself." She flung the words at him spitefully and the rest of the group looked at her in shock, momentarily speechless. What were they all staring at? Was that supposed to cut him to the quick? Granted, for the witch that was about as nasty as things got, but honestly. Did she think he was going to be insulted? She was right. He was a right bastard and she had his number. He smiled, rather pleased that someone in this little group remembered exactly who and what he was.

She glared at him harder, if that was possible, when she saw the smile on his face. "You want to share my pain, Spike? You want to know what it felt like when everything I had worked so hard for went crashing into that tree and I realized it had all been for nothing?" Her big green eyes narrowed, and he could tell the witch was going to try to get to him, to make him feel the frustration and anger and hurt that she had been subjected to. 

** The best of British luck to you, pet ** His smile grew wider in anticipation as she leaned forward. He hadn't had this much fun in days.

"You want to know how I felt tonight, Spike? Think May 1995. Last day of the season. West Ham vs. Manchester United for the Premiership trophy. THAT'S how I felt tonight." She leaned back and smiled in satisfaction at the look of horror on his face.

The nerve of the girl. Comparing her little computer fiasco to That Game. He remembered that game like it was yesterday. He had seriously considered giving up following football after that game and taking up something a little less painful – anything would have to be less painful than watching Manchester United miss chance after chance while those West Ham wankers played the game of their lives – but in the end he decided that football really was the sport for him. The screaming, the fights, the riots, the bloodshed…nah, he couldn't give it up. So instead, he'd gone out and drowned his sorrows in buckets of blood that night. Hearing her remind him of that fiasco of a game made him want to go out and do it all again. 

But he couldn't, not any more. 

Eye contact was broken – and the battle of wills officially ended – when the Watcher returned, presenting the witch with a steaming cup of tea. He watched as the chit shifted mood completely, putting her computer case on the ground, smiling at the old fusspot with affection and thanking him prettily.

Hard to believe this was the same little harridan who just made him relive one of his worst nightmares.

He decided then and there to pay a little more attention at these little gatherings and watch the witch a bit more carefully. She had layers to her…it was easy to forget that. He shouldn't have, though. He was supposed to be the one who saw and noted all their little strengths and weaknesses so he could use them against them, strike where it would hurt the most.

Just like the witch had with him.

Maybe they had more in common than he had thought.

Especially if she liked football.

Part 3

Three days later he wasn't sure what to make of his observation of the witch and the rest of the Slayers merry band of do-gooders. He'd actually forced himself to pay attention at the nightly research gatherings (he refused to refer to them as research 'parties,' like the rest of that sorry lot, since to his thinking a 'party' required at a minimum liquor, blood and fear, all of which were sorely lacking, unfortunately). 

It wasn't easy, considering the rubbish they gave him to read. It was amazing he could stay awake long enough to observe anything.

He shifted around on the hard stone beneath his back, trying to find a more comfortable position, and blew smoke rings at the ceiling while he catalogued his findings.

Demon girl was guaranteed to mention sex at least once during every conversation.

Her bollock-brain of a boyfriend had finally given up reciting the 'appropriate topics of conversation' list every time she did and now contented himself with closing his eyes in pain or, if the word 'orgasm' was actually uttered, banging his head on the table quietly.

 ** Wish I could help him with that ** Thoughts of repeatedly slamming the boy's head against the table until his forehead was nothing but bloody mush threatened to distract him, but he dutifully forced his mind back to the subject at hand.

Let's see, what else had he learned?

Oh, yeah…Slutty the Vampire Layer's eyes got all soft and she actually glowed whenever she mentioned her soldier boy boyfriend. Yep, the girl had it bad. He found himself wondering if she'd actually shagged the twit yet, but his stomach objected violently to the visual – naked Slayer, blech – and he immediately switched to a more pleasant scenario.  ** Hope she's there to see it when I finally get this chip taken care of and I rip his arms off and beat him with them ** 

And the Watcher was a tight-arsed tosser with a superiority complex.

Nothing new learned there.

But the witch…once again he contemplated their little exchange of the night before.

It had been another boring night - look up demons, talk about prophecies ad nauseum, try to guess the nature of the next impending apocalypse, blah, blah, blah - when the Slayer looked at her watch for the hundredth time and jumped up. "Oh, my…look at the time! It's getting late! I better get out there and patrol."

The witch had looked at her with a little smirk and big innocent eyes. "Patrolling alone tonight, Buff?" 

The Slayer had stopped her primping and hastily shoved her lipstick and mirror back in her pocket. "Sure. I mean, unless I run into someone who wants to patrol. With me." 

"We do. Come on, Xander. We'll help Buffy do her sweep through the cemetery before we go home. My legs hurt from sitting too long, and stretching before strenuous physical exercise is necessary for humans." Demon girl stood up, not even noticing the look of relief on Xapper's face. It was a good bet he had been thrilled his little girlfriend had decided not to elaborate for once on the 'physical exercise' she had planned for later.

"Um…that's okay, Anya. You two have put in a long night. Just well, go home and do, you know, whatever it is you two do at home. I'll be fine, really." 

He had leaned over and winked at the ex-demon. "When the Slayer gets all tarted up before patrol, it means she's going to meet Captain Cardboard and give him lots of orgasms in between the actual patrolling and slaying." 

The look of outrage the Slayer shot him had been priceless. 

"Oh. Well, we wouldn't want to interrupt your orgasms. We'll just go home and have our own." The moron had started the head-thumping-on-the-table thing, oblivious to demon girl's attempts to get him out of his chair.

He hadn't been able to resist one last shot. "Well, Slayer, better hurry and get started on shagging – I mean, patrol. Wouldn't want soldier boy to off one without you." Before he knew it, the bitch had had a stake in her hand and he had been forced to resort to trying to look innocent to avoid being dusted. "Demon! I meant offing a demon! What did you think I meant, you dirty minded girl? "

The witch had stepped into the fray right about then. "Buff, he's just being mean. That's what he does. Don't let it get to you." 

The stake pushed aside, the Slayer had turned on him. "What would you know about shagging or orgasms, Spike? You aren't getting any of either one, are you? Last I heard, your loony little girlfriend had dumped your ass and was off 'shagging' what? A chaos demon? No, it was a fungus demon this time, wasn't it? Bet he's having all kinds of good orgasms right about now."

The reminder of his wicked plum's betrayals had stabbed him like a knife through the heart, twisting and twisting until he was consumed by the pain, but he was sure he hadn't let on. He had known he needed a witty retort, but the pain…it was too much. The words just wouldn't come.

So he'd focused on the little witch's voice, pushing the pain away. "Stop! Enough! Don't say another word about…" The redhead had shot him a look of apology. "…Drusilla. You know the Rule of Blighted Romance. We do not say mean things about - or even needlessly mention  - Cordelia, A-angel or Oz." The last name had come out as little more than a pain filled whisper. 

"The Rule does not cover Drusilla!" 

The witch had crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "It does now. I say so. The Rule is hereby altered." She had pursed her little pink mouth and narrowed her eyes, then pointed to her face. "Resolve face."

He had been shocked when the Slayer opened her mouth, then closed it without saying another word. "Fine. I'm out of here." She'd stormed out without a backward glance, and demon girl and the moron had followed not long after

He'd seen the pity in their eyes when they'd looked at him on their way out the door. 

It had almost been more than he could stand. How dare they! The idea that they – weak, powerless, and mortal – should feel sorry for him! 

He had decided to put an end to it once and for all.

"Thanks so much for the assist there, Witch, but it really wasn't necessary. You lot can talk about Dru - "  he was sure, thinking back on it, that his voice hadn't broken on her 

name, not really " - all you want. Doesn't bother me a bit." He'd fumbled a bit lighting a cigarette, but she didn't notice. They were always on about how he wasn't allowed to smoke in the shop, so he'd known she would understand that his little act of defiance meant he didn't care a jot what any of them thought of him.

"You forget who you're talking to here, Spike. I was there right after the big break up, remember? Love spell? Drunk Spike? Bottle in face…uh, never mind. Let's not bring up the past, okay?" She had looked at him with those big sad eyes. "Let's just forget it."

"No, I bloody well will not forget it. I am over it…over her. I spent a century taking care of that barmy bint and she dumped me for a 'real' demon. Big deal. Do you think I paid attention to anything she said? I am not soft! I have never been soft! I am the Big Bad, I am Evil with a capital "E," and I don't need her or anyone else. Don't know what I saw in the silly cow anyway." 

"You loved her." Her voice had been as soft as her eyes, and more than anything in this world he had wanted to slap her.

"You just don't get it, do you? I don't want – I don't need - your bleedin' pity." He had blown smoke in her face, feeling triumph as she backed away from him. 

She had waved her hand in front of her face and scrunched her cute little nose, but she never stopped looking at him with those big soft green eyes. "You're the one who doesn't get it, Spike. I don't pity you. I feel compassion, and probably more than a little empathy…but I don't pity you. I simply don't like knowing someone is in pain. Even undead evil guys who loathe my very existence. So, really, if you think about it, I did it all for me. Out of selfishness, to make me feel better. Yep, sometimes my selfish side rears its ugly head and I just can't help myself from doing stuff like that. Now if you'll excuse me - " she'd made a production of opening the door for him. " – I promised Giles I would lock up tonight and it's late. I really want to get home." He'd swept out the door without a backward glance and had headed down the street.

Later, he'd followed her back to the dorm after she left the shop. He'd felt like taking a walk, and figured he could use the practice. It'd been ages since he'd stalked anyone. Hadn't lost his touch though; silly chit hadn't even known he was there.

He didn't buy her explanation, and he wasn't sure what to make of her thinking – pity, compassion, he'd gone 'round and 'round contemplating the two since the night before – but he had to give her points for originality, and he definitely admired the rather circuitous way her brain worked. Would that change, if someone were to make her a vampire? 

He shook himself out of his reverie and sat up, pinching his cigarette out before tossing it aside. Almost sundown…he could feel it. 

Time to go see what the witch was up to.


	2. Ties That Bind, Part 4

TITLE: Ties That Bind, 4/?
    
    AUTHOR: La Rose Noire
    
    EMAIL: goddessblkrose@yahoo.com
    
    SUMMARY: Takes place back when Spike was newly chipped
    
    and forced to be one of the Scoobies. This will be
    
    Spike/Willow, of course, because, well, that's how it
    
    SHOULD BE.
    
    RATING:  G (But we'll see how it goes in other
    
    parts.)
    
    DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, et al own all
    
    that is Buffy...including the characters in this
    
    story. If they were mine, the whole last few seasons
    
    would have been nothing but a bad dream. No copyright
    
    infringement intended, just a desperate attempt to
    
    right some fictional wrongs.
    
    Part 4 
    
    He almost didn't see her. Luckily he caught a flash of
    
    red hair in a streetlight; she was headed away from
    
    the shop, almost running, on the other side of the
    
    street. He tossed his cigarette aside and hopped over
    
    an inconveniently parked car and crossed the street to
    
    follow her. 
    
    He wasn't going to spend another night with the Do
    
    Good Gang if the little witch wasn't there to keep it
    
    interesting. **Might accidentally start paying
    
    attention and end up giving one of those wankers the
    
    bloody end they deserve**
    
    After a few blocks her pace slowed considerably and he
    
    moved closer, keeping to the shadows out of habit. He
    
    could hear her mumbling under her breath; he caught
    
    something about the 'wicked witch of Sunnydale' and
    
    'useless spells and even more useless witches.' He
    
    drifted a bit closer, trying to hear more, to figure
    
    out what had the little witch all worked up, but
    
    stopped when she came to a halt in the middle of the
    
    sidewalk, dropping her bag. She pulled her hands from
    
    her pockets and he saw she was armed with a wicked
    
    looking stake and a water gun, probably filled with
    
    holy water.
    
    "I know you're there! Come out where I can see you!"
    
    She sounded angry, and there was no scent of fear in
    
    the air. For a moment he felt something that seemed
    
    oddly akin to pride. 
    
    "Come out NOW or I'll turn you into a…a…frog! They may
    
    not think I can do it, but believe me, you'll be green
    
    and slimy in no time flat if you don't show your face
    
    right this instant!" He stifled the urge to chuckle,
    
    but when he saw Willow take a deep calming breath to
    
    center herself, he knew she wasn't bluffing and he
    
    stepped out of the darkness.
    
    He'd seen what happened when the little witch started
    
    casting spells, and he wasn't taking any chances. It
    
    would take him another century to live down his
    
    'engagement' to the slayer, not to mention the
    
    nightmares he had had since then. It'd only been a
    
    week since he'd woken up in a cold sweat with the
    
    taste of slayer in his mouth, her scent surrounding
    
    him, and he wasn't taking any chances on a
    
    reoccurrence. 
    
    "It's just me, pet. Shouldn't you be safely tucked
    
    away right about now, researching your little heart
    
    out with the gang"  - he put as much contempt as he
    
    could into the last two words -   "rather than
    
    wandering the streets alone after dark? There are all
    
    kinds of nasty things lurking about out here." He
    
    swaggered towards her, pleased when she didn't lower
    
    the stake or the water gun. She may not be afraid of
    
    him, but she knew he was still a threat. No wonder
    
    they all thought she was the smart one.
    
    Willow's eyes narrowed as she watched him move towards
    
    her. "The gang" – her words, much to his surprise,
    
    held as much contempt as his had – "can all go to
    
    hell. And you can, too."
    
    "Tsk, tsk, tsk, Red. Such language." He stopped a safe
    
    distance away and looked down at the girl in front of
    
    him, shaking his head mournfully. He did so like
    
    seeing her angry like this; her red hair seemed to
    
    glow, and her eyes snapped and sparked.  "Is that any
    
    way to talk to your old friend Spike?"
    
    He almost snickered when she arched an eyebrow at him
    
    and shot him a filthy look. She was just so damn cute.
    
    "Friend? I think you need to get a new dictionary,
    
    Spike. Last I heard, a friend was someone who liked
    
    you, and trusted you, and was there for you…and I
    
    don't mean in a "I'd really kill you or turn you if I
    
    could, you big pathetic loser of a witch" kinda way."
    
    She stopped and looked away for a moment. "Right now
    
    I'm beginning to think I don't have any real friends."
    
    Spike arched his eyebrow. Something interesting was
    
    definitely going on between the witch and the rest of
    
    the Slayer's little fan club. Something which could,
    
    perhaps, be used to his advantage. He waited
    
    patiently, trying to look interested, knowing she
    
    would tell him everything he wanted to know; she
    
    wouldn't be able to help herself. She wouldn't pass up
    
    an opportunity to talk about 'her feelings'. She was a
    
    woman, after all.
    
    And if there was one thing he knew, it was women.
    
    "I've apologized and groveled and baked until I want
    
    to scream, and it doesn't seem to make a bit of
    
    difference." Her voice was a mixture of anger and
    
    frustration. "Tonight was the last straw. They don't
    
    even trust me to do a basic cleansing spell on a teeny
    
    tiny little amulet. I could do a cleansing spell in my
    
    sleep, it's basic beginner's magic, but no, they had
    
    to send the thing off to someone else they trusted for
    
    them to do it. People could be hurt in the meantime,
    
    but they still wouldn't let me do it!" She took a deep
    
    shaky breath. "I've paid and paid and paid for what I
    
    did,  and I've sworn to be good,  but it still isn't
    
    enough."
    
    Spike reviewed her little speech in his head, finally
    
    starting to make sense of her words. "Still holding a
    
    grudge over your little 'my will' spell, are they? You
    
    have to admit, pet, the results of that were
    
    pretty…spectacular." He shuddered at the memory of the
    
    Slayer pressed up against him, kissing him
    
    desperately, her tongue in his mouth, her hands all
    
    over him. He suddenly felt the need for a shower.
    
    **Not that that would wash the stench away, mind you.
    
    Slayer's worse than skunk. Can't get rid of it, no
    
    matter how hard you try**
    
    She closed her eyes and seemed to wilt, all her anger
    
    suddenly forgotten. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I
    
    wasn't myself that night; I didn't know what I was
    
    doing. I was just so…so…" She made a sound half way
    
    between a sigh and a sob. "I just wanted the pain to
    
    stop. But it's never going to stop, is it?" The sound
    
    of tears in her voice made him suddenly uncomfortable,
    
    and he wished he were anywhere else. He cast a furtive
    
    look around, searching for an escape route. 
    
    "Do you know what it's like, having the one person
    
    you've built your entire life around leave you?" The
    
    pain cut through him, sharp and hot. He really didn't
    
    need this. He had gotten over Drusilla. He had. He had
    
    gotten on with his unlife, had already dumped one
    
    girlfriend since then. He didn't want to talk about
    
    the past. He wanted nothing more at that moment than
    
    to strike the witch, to shut her up. He hurt like hell
    
    already; what was a little headache on top of it?
    
    "I really loved him, but it wasn't enough. I wasn't
    
    enough." He remembered saying almost those same words,
    
    not long ago, and wondered if they had been as filled
    
    with anguish.
    
    She opened her eyes and looked straight at him, into
    
    him, her voice low, her big green eyes swimming with
    
    tears. "He knew me better than anyone else ever had,
    
    and he still loved me. When I was with him, I was
    
    somebody. I was beautiful. I was smart… and strong…I
    
    felt powerful. I could do anything, be anything. He
    
    made me feel like I mattered, that I was the most
    
    important thing in the world. I would have done
    
    anything for him, anything at all. I loved him so
    
    much, with everything I was, everything I had."
    
    Her words echoed in his ears. So much pain and grief,
    
    so many memories, his, hers…a hundred years of love
    
    and loss weighed him down, and for a split second, he
    
    relived that moment, that one awful endless moment,
    
    when Dru turned and walked away from him and he knew,
    
    knew with every fiber of his being, that it was over
    
    between them, that she wasn't coming back, that there
    
    was nothing he could ever do to make things go back to
    
    the way they had been.
    
    He watched a tear slowly make its way down the little
    
    witch's cheek and tried to think through the pain.
    
    "I still can't believe he left me like that. He just
    
    walked away, like it all meant nothing. I could have
    
    dealt with the almost-killing-me part, but to just
    
    walk away from me, from us…how do I deal with that? It
    
    hurts. Every minute of every day, it hurts. I can't
    
    stop wondering what was wrong with me, what I did, or
    
    said, or could have done, what I should have been…if
    
    it all meant anything at all to him. I feel like I'm
    
    nothing, now. I want to be the person I was, when I
    
    was with him, but I hurt so much…how I am supposed to
    
    figure out how." The tears were running down her
    
    cheeks now, and she looked small and lost. 
    
    So much like Dru had, when she was sick.
    
    A hundred years of habit kicked in, and he moved
    
    without thinking, pulling the witch against him
    
    roughly. He heard the stake and water gun clattered to
    
    the ground, and her arms came up to wind around his
    
    back, her hands grabbing the back of his duster for
    
    dear life. As he stroked her hair and murmured vague
    
    words of comfort, he felt his own pain dwindle away.
    
    After a few minutes, she stopped crying, but didn't
    
    let go. He knew he owed her the truth; she was too
    
    smart to accept anything else. "It takes time, love.
    
    And the pain doesn't ever go away completely, I don't
    
    think. That's the price you pay for being love's
    
    bitch. But some of us don't have a choice in the
    
    matter; it's just how we're made. It's all or nothing
    
    with us."
    
    The red head snuffled a bit against his shoulder. "The
    
    others think I should move through the pain, move on
    
    to something – someone – else."
    
    Spike chuckled without humour. "Yeah, they would.
    
    Sorry,  it doesn't work that way, pet. Believe me, I
    
    know. You need to accept that there wasn't anything
    
    you could have done or said, and that there wasn't
    
    anything wrong with you. Leaving was something the
    
    wolf needed to do for himself. And no, you aren't the
    
    same woman you were when he was with you. You're
    
    stronger now…or you will be, when you get through all
    
    of this. But all the things you were before, all the
    
    things he loved you for are still there. You're still
    
    you." He listened to his words and realized that he
    
    was telling her the truth, telling himself the truth. 
    
    The red head pulled herself back to look at his face,
    
    searching for something, then smiled tremulously. "I'm
    
    sorry I threatened you and cried all over you."
    
    He smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
    
    "'S alright. You're not the first bird who's done it.
    
    Of course, they usually didn't live to tell anyone
    
    about it."
    
    Her smile disappeared. "I won't tell anyone. I
    
    promise." She looked so sincere. It occurred to him
    
    that he hadn't for a moment thought that she would
    
    tell anyone what went on between them. 
    
    Red could keep a secret. He looked into those sincere
    
    green eyes and wondered what other secrets she was
    
    keeping. 
    
    "Bloody hell." He swore softly under his breath and
    
    gently disentangled the girl from him.
    
    "What? Spike, what's wrong?" 
    
    "Slutty's coming. Impeccable timing, as usual." He
    
    watched as the little witch scrambled to stuff her
    
    stake and water gun into her bag, then slung it over
    
    her shoulder.
    
    Willow looked around anxiously, but didn't see the
    
    slayer. No surprise. She was still a block or so away,
    
    if his Slayer sense was still working properly; at
    
    least the damn chip hadn't taken that away from him.
    
    "I better go. I really don't want to see any of them
    
    again tonight. I couldn't stand another lecture, or
    
    listening to them telling me one more time me what I
    
    should be doing, 'for my own good'."  
    
    He snickered softly. "Know how you feel, love. I feel
    
    that way every night. Run along, then. I'll keep
    
    Blondie busy so you can make a clean getaway." He made
    
    a shooing motion with his hand, but the little red
    
    head didn't move; she just stood there, looking at her
    
    shoes.
    
    "Um…Spike?  Thank you. I'm sorry I said that before,
    
    about us not being friends. I mean, we aren't friends,
    
    not really, it's not like we do stuff together, other
    
    than go kill things, and we don't have much in common,
    
    since, well, you're the evil undead and I'm not…but
    
    you were there for me, tonight." She looked up
    
    suddenly, and her green eyes locked on his. "I needed
    
    someone, and no one else was there for me, except you.
    
    I won't forget that." She rushed forward suddenly and
    
    kissed his cheek, then turned and ran away before he
    
    could say anything. 
    
    He stood there and watched while she disappeared into
    
    the shadows, making a mental note to go round and make
    
    sure she'd gotten home alright after he got through
    
    playing bait-the-bitch with the Slayer. He was
    
    actually looking forward to it for once. Nothing she
    
    could say would ruin his good mood. 
    
    For a while there tonight, he'd felt something he
    
    hadn't in a long, long time. Something good. Something
    
    he hadn't even realized he'd missed. 
    
    He'd felt needed. 
    
    As he felt the Slayer draw near, he lit a cigarette
    
    and inhaled a lungful of sweet smoke.
    
    What a great night this was turning out to be.


	3. Ties That Bind, Part 5

TITLE: Ties That Bind, 5/?
    
    AUTHOR: La Rose Noire
    
    EMAIL: goddessblkrose@yahoo.com
    
    SUMMARY: Takes place back when Spike was newly chipped
    
    and forced to be one of the Scoobies. This will be
    
    Spike/Willow, of course, because, well, that's how it
    
    SHOULD BE .
    
    RATING:  G 
    
    DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, et al own all
    
    that is Buffy...including the characters in this
    
    story. If they were mine, the whole last few seasons
    
    would have been nothing but a bad dream. No copyright
    
    infringement intended, just a desperate attempt to
    
    right some fictional wrongs.
    
    Part 5
    
    He whistled happily in the dark as he headed home
    
    through the deserted cemetery, pausing now and again
    
    to do a little jig on a headstone then jump off, as
    
    high and as far as he could. He'd had a bloody
    
    brilliant day; first, the best sleep he'd had in ages,
    
    with no Slayer filled dreams, just technicolour scenes
    
    of blood and mayhem (of which he was, of course, the
    
    instigator), then an evening filled with poker (for
    
    once he'd managed to leave with no kittens but plenty
    
    of money) with a side order of violence. The odds were
    
    four to one, and he was the only one left standing. He
    
    touched the side of his face gingerly, wincing a
    
    little at the tenderness of his quickly vanishing
    
    bruises, and switched to humming, badly mangling
    
    "Anarchy in the UK." He lit a cigarette and took a
    
    deep drag, watching as the exhaled smoke drifted  into
    
    the crisp, clean air. 
    
    Some nights, it was just so good to be undead. 
    
    He stopped humming as he reached the door to his crypt
    
    and spotted the cardboard box sitting in front of his
    
    door. He stood a good distance away and examined it as
    
    he finished his cigarette. It was an ordinary
    
    cardboard box, maybe three quarters of a meter tall, a
    
    little longer in width, sealed with cellotape. "Spike"
    
    was written neatly across the top in big black
    
    letters. He ground his cigarette out underneath his
    
    boot without taking his eyes off the box, then
    
    approached it slowly.
    
    It didn't move, it wasn't ticking, and it didn't
    
    stink. So far, so good. He gave it a shove with his
    
    foot, then skipped back a bit and waited.
    
    It just sat there.
    
    **I'm not going to let some bloody stupid box ruin my
    
    night** His always short patience at an end, he strode
    
    forward and picked at the end of the thick piece of
    
    cellotape holding the box closed with a black
    
    fingernail, chipping the polish even more, finally
    
    pulling it off in a strip and idly wrapping it around
    
    his index and middle fingers as it came off. He
    
    wrinkled his forehead and flared his nostrils as he
    
    caught the barest hint of vanilla in the air, then
    
    brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed the tape.
    
    He knew who'd left the box for him.  For a moment, he
    
    was sorry he hadn't stopped by the shop to see the
    
    little witch earlier in the evening, but the thought
    
    of the Slayer ruining his perfect day banished any
    
    regret. He'd thoroughly trounced Blondie in last
    
    night's battle of the wits – when she stomped away,
    
    she was on the edge of tears – and dutifully checked
    
    to make sure Red had gotten back to her dorm safe and
    
    sound after their little exchange; he'd deserved to
    
    have tonight off. 
    
    He squatted down and ripped open the top of the box,
    
    wondering what was so important that the witch would
    
    venture out to the cemetery at night to deliver it. 
    
    He didn't move for a long time; he just sat and stared
    
    into the open box. Finally, carefully, he began to
    
    remove the contents, examining each item as he placed
    
    it gently to the side. 
    
    Four 24 biscuit boxes of Wheetabix. Six bags of
    
    Walkers potato crisps: two salted, two salt & vinegar,
    
    one tomato ketchup, one beef & onion. Two eight-packs
    
    of Pub Draught Guinness in the techno-cans. Four tubes
    
    of McVities Milk Chocolate Hob Nobs. Two packs of
    
    Jacobs cream crackers, and four bags of their
    
    Twiglets. Two bags of Bassetts jellie babies. And
    
    stacked neatly in a corner, bars and bars of Cadbury
    
    chocolate – the good stuff, not that crap made in the
    
    states and stuck in a Cadbury wrapper. This was real
    
    Cadbury chocolate, crunchie, and fudge, and dairy
    
    milk, and whole nut, and double decker… 
    
    "Oh, Red." He shook his head in disbelief as he sat
    
    back on his heels and surveyed the bounty in front of
    
    him. All his favourites. Everything he loved, all the
    
    food he'd missed. His mouth watered and he laughed out
    
    loud. He wasn't sure why she'd done it, but he was
    
    glad she had. It was quite possibly the best gift he'd
    
    ever gotten. 
    
    Not that he'd gotten many gifts recently. As he
    
    carefully repacked everything in the box, he tried to
    
    remember the last present he'd been given. Angelus was
    
    good at taking, but not giving, and Dru really wasn't
    
    much for gift giving. Well, she'd given him people,
    
    now and again, a particularly tasty chit or an enemy
    
    or two, presented to him to finish off at his leisure,
    
    but she'd certainly never given him anything
    
    this…thoughtful.
    
    He carried the box inside and deposited it on the
    
    sarcophagus, wondering how the witch had known exactly
    
    what he liked. Sure, he and the watcher had argued a
    
    bit over the Wheetabix while they had been
    
    'roommates,' and maybe they'd waxed nostalgic over the
    
    lack of quality snack food and beer here in the States
    
    a time or two, but for her to remember exactly what he
    
    liked…
    
    He wondered for a moment if the witch had been
    
    watching him as closely as he'd been watching her.
    
    Sure, he was a good looking bloke, and American women
    
    seemed to love the accent (hell, he'd seen the way the
    
    female customers at the magic shop perked up when the
    
    watcher started talking, and he was old), but the
    
    witch had always seemed a one-wolf kind of bird. He
    
    didn't think she'd even noticed anything about him,
    
    much less that he was a man.
    
    Why should she notice? After all, the Slayer had made
    
    it clear, over and over, that he was a monster, a
    
    thing, not a person, not a man, just a tool to be used
    
    and put away without a second thought when she was
    
    done with him. If it hadn't been for the witch, he
    
    would never have gotten a thank you from any of them,
    
    or any other consideration for his feelings at all.
    
    The thought brought him up short. The witch had always
    
    treated him differently than the others, been more
    
    concerned for his welfare, his feelings. He'd always
    
    chalked it up to her more sensitive nature (he was
    
    sure she probably collected stray puppies and kittens
    
    to bring home and helped little old people cross the
    
    street, too) and her common sense; unlike the rest,
    
    she was afraid of him, she knew he was a predator, and
    
    could turn on them at any moment. She rarely looked
    
    him in the eye, never sat near him if she could avoid
    
    it, spoke to him only when she had to, and blushed and
    
    babbled when she did. Up until last night, he'd never
    
    been alone with her since that night in her dorm room,
    
    and she always smelled of fear when he got too close.
    
    An idea began to form. What if she had been watching
    
    him, aware of him, concerned for him, as a person, not
    
    as just another being.
    
    What if she wasn't afraid of Spike the vampire, but of
    
    Spike the man?
    
    He shrugged off his duster and tossed it on the chair.
    
    He searched out his lone mug and wiped it out with the
    
    edge of his t-shirt, then jumped up to sit on the
    
    sarcophagus. Pulling an eight pack of Guinness and a
    
    pack of crisps out of the box, he popped open the can
    
    and watched it foam into the mug, marveling for a
    
    moment at modern technology. He ripped open the bag
    
    and took a deep drink, sighing happily, before
    
    returning to contemplation of his new theory.
    
    Overall, Red was pretty brave – she'd have to be,
    
    being raised on the Hellmouth and hanging around with
    
    the Slayer all this time. She'd been up against some
    
    pretty powerful demons and vampires – his sire
    
    included – and managed to survive with nothing more
    
    than her friends,  her knowledge of her enemies'
    
    weaknesses, her mortal strength and the little bit of
    
    magic she had mastered. It didn't make sense that she
    
    should be so afraid of being around him, given the
    
    fact that they both knew he couldn't hurt her anymore,
    
    no matter how much he wanted to. 
    
    On the other hand, she really hadn't had much
    
    experience with men. He was willing to bet that she'd
    
    been a virgin until she met the wolf; he vaguely
    
    remembered something about her and the moron being
    
    caught snogging somewhere once upon a time, but he
    
    doubted the little prat had been up to much else. He
    
    snickered. Not that the wolf and Xapper qualified as
    
    men, anyway. They were boys; the only man she spent
    
    any time with was the watcher, and he treated her like
    
    a daughter. And though she wasn't quite as…fuzzy as
    
    she had been, she still didn't dress to catch a
    
    bloke's eye like Slutty.
    
    No, Red was the shy, quiet type, and, after thinking
    
    about it, he was willing to bet it wasn't his vampire
    
    nature that made her so afraid of him, but the fact
    
    that he was thoroughly male. The knowledge pleased
    
    him.  He downed the last of his stout, put the mug
    
    down, then crumpled the empty crisp bag and threw it
    
    over his shoulder. He rifled through the box, trying
    
    to decide what to eat next, wondering exactly how he
    
    should thank the little witch for her gift.
    
    Whatever he decided, testing his new theory should
    
    make things bloody interesting tomorrow.


End file.
